


Burning the Wings of John Murphy

by Of_Frost_and_Fire



Series: You will be damaged and scarred (you will continue to hunger) [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inspired by Poetry, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3921271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Of_Frost_and_Fire/pseuds/Of_Frost_and_Fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one cared that these savages brought down whips and blades to his skin, no one asked how he felt when they strung him up in the darkness, pulling out his fingernails while he screamed his voice hoarse. Now they were allies. He could bet that they could smell the darkness on his skin, it was thick underneath the layer of grime and dirt that covered the scars of his mistakes. It had burrowed into his bones, festered in the hollow of his eyes; how terrible he must look to people like her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning the Wings of John Murphy

_Dear bird-boned boy with the stars in his lungs:_

_are they looking? Do they love you?_

_Do they know how far you’ve come?_

 

He could feel eyes on him again, watching as if he were a loaded gun on the ground amongst children. Their gazes bore holes into his back, whispers of his name on tongues that dare not speak to his face. He wondered if they would touch him, come near enough to brush finger tips over scarred flesh, or would he break their hand before given the chance to realize that he was just as human as the rest of them.

But they could smell the darkness on his skin, it was thick underneath the layer of grime and dirt that covered the scars of his mistakes. It had burrowed into his bones, festered in the hollow of his eyes; how terrible he must look to people like _her_. The funny thing about darkness is that it can hide in the shadows of man’s soul, it can show itself when a man is in desperation, when hate and fury are his only comforts.

His darkness was not so dexterous. His darkness sang lullabies of revenge in the night, his darkness raked claws down his rib cage to remind him how it felt the day he was ripped apart by his own empathy. His darkness did not hide in the shadows but instead ran through his veins like cyanide, poisoning any thoughts of hope by curling his longing fingers into fists. Hell, he broke his own mother.

He always had a knack for breaking things far better than he could fix them.

“Murphy, stop doing that.”

Green eyes look up at the girl, the girl with the pretty face and blonde halo of hair that seemed to have everyone wrapped around her finger. Not that he was any different. They tell stories about how the mighty have fallen yet fail to mention how the sucker tripped himself.

“Doing what?” he scowled. Clarke gave him a look, holding the needle away from his eye.

“Furrowing your brow like that. I can’t stitch you up when you brood,” she stated, her fingers that held his jaw softly moved to tilt his head up a bit as she waited for him to relax his forehead. He did so as best as possible, not even wincing when the needle sank through the flesh over his right brow.

“I’m not brooding.”

Clarke didn’t bother to reply but he saw the small smile that came to her lips. She rarely smiled around him, an active member of the group that avoided him though he had been getting better. More quiet, palpable. He could count the number of times she had smiled in his presence on one hand. 

  
_Boy with the sky for a home_  
_who met the dirt like a strong_  
 _left hook._

He should’ve been used to this. He should’ve taken his own ostracism in stride after spending years ignored by own mother. She would rather watch the sloshing of her liquor than notice how he wilted every night waiting for her to see him. The day his father was floated was the day that he saw his own darkness in mirror. He saw the features he inherited, watched the same green eyes every night as his father snuck him medicine, watched the same brow hold lines of worry.

The day Jaha floated his father was the first time he ever thought of shattering the mirror with his fist, wondering if the shards would be big enough to slice through elite flesh. How fucking expendable must we be to be floated for giving a shit, to be sent to a radioactive planet before most of them needed to shave?

His father’s death taught him that caring too much was dangerous.

“Done.” Clarke said, dabbing her stitches with moonshine before blowing on the wound softly to rid the sting. It was a move he had seen millions of times before yet he still had to force himself to remember that he wasn’t special.

“Don’t treat me like a fucking kid.” He bit back, pulling away from her and moving off the seat he occupied inside the med bay. He felt eyes on him again, the adults were worse than the others sometimes but only because he was so close to the chancellor’s daughter. Maybe they thought darkness was contagious, that he would ruin her. He knew what she had done, he had heard the war stories and felt the swell of respect in his chest. Her darkness was much more selfless than his.

“Then stop acting like one,” she countered, putting her supplies back into the first aid box she got them from, “If you keep getting in fights with the guard, you’re going to cause trouble for yourself again.”

“If I do, I know you’ll put me out of my misery.” he mumbled. He didn’t think she would hear him but the pause of motion, the way she looked back at him with those eyes. Fuck, those ocean eyes always seemed to see through him. He didn’t know what was worse, being invisible or being transparent.  

He shouldn’t have said that.

 

 _Raging Icarus, too close to the sun—_  
_he lit the fires and burnt his own wings_  
 _to the ground._

“Go to hell, Murphy,” were her parting words.

He didn’t blame her. Reminding her of Finn seemed to be a reoccurring issue, he wondered if his face reminded her of him. Reminded her that had Raven gotten her wish, he would’ve been the sacrifice to save the psycho white knight. He was used to being expendable now. He was a place holder with a gun the moment he had decided to attempt to rise above his meager existence. Bellamy did the same only he seemed to be loved for it. Murphy just went about it the wrong way, asserted himself when the darkness rose under his skin instead of the occasion.

Power was his drug of choice until he overdosed. What a shit show it was.

Murphy glared at the people around him as he pushed out of the med bay, no one bothered to move for him when he was unarmed. The one hundred built themselves up from the moment they landed. After the rest of the Ark joined them, after taking down mount weather, they were trying to survive with the peace they had for the moment.

He took in the fresh air of the day, his lungs expanded and he tilted his head back. He cringed at the way pain shot down his spine. He hadn’t told Clarke that the guard had been mocking him, mentioning his mother. Most people didn’t ask why he hit something, always assuming he had started it. It was easier that way.

“Murphy,” a voice called. He knew that voice. The same voice he followed all those months ago, the same one that still demanded the attention of everyone around him and was granted it.

“Yes, captain?” he lulled his gaze to the rebel leader.

Bellamy stood like a king, a gun at his back with his face cleaned as his hair trimmed. He wondered what it would be like having the princess of the Ark make a man so aware. That thought made something in him tighten, like pulling a muscle while all he did was look at the man that used to be as low as him.

“The grounders are taking a group out to hunt, you’re with us,” Bellamy stated. Wasn’t a question.

“Do I get a gun?” he asked, a tilt of his head with his tone clipped. Bellamy gave him a look, his lips a straight line. “I won’t shoot anyone you don’t want me to,” sarcasm dripped from his lips.

“You done?” Bellamy asked, turning his back for him to follow. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, he could feel the holes that were there, stick his fingers through them. Winter was coming and he thought to get them fixed. Nah.

He slumped into a question mark of a person following in the shadow of his leader. He wondered if Bellamy still saw the boy that hung from tree. If he would ever look at him as see the boy who handed him water amongst the blood, who tried to make up for his revenge filled crimes with the loyalty of a dog.

A group of four grounders waited for them at the gates along with Miller and Octavia. He didn’t cower at the glares, at the way the grounders all but bared their teeth at him. Each face was scarred into his memory, laughed at him in his nightmares. The moment he saw them walk into the gates as allies, he bit back the fear that gripped him, swallowed the need to attack like the wild animal he was.

No one cared that these men brought down whips and blades to his skin, no one asked how he felt when they strung him up in the darkness, pulling out his fingernails while he screamed his voice hoarse. No one seemed to give a fuck.   

Yet even a monster like him didn’t want Finn gunning down women and children in cold blood. But nobody asked his opinion.

The large tattooed warrior looked at Bellamy, motioning to him with his chin in a silent question of choice. The dark haired leader gave a nod, “He’s good. We need to go before it gets dark.”

The hunting party moved out but not before the grounders pushed him to the back of pack, all giving him a side long glance of distrust. He might not have pulled the trigger at the village but he was just as much at fault it seems. Octavia walked in time beside him,

“They’ll get used to you,” she reassured him. He noticed the way she walked slightly behind him, a purposeful space between them. He rolled his eyes simply watched the group before him,

“You haven’t.”

  
_Now, he wears his clipped feathers in a noose_  
_around his neck, because he knows_  
 _what it is to be the center of attention_  
 _at the hanging._

Murphy walked behind the group, Octavia had moved back into the stride with everyone else as time went on. He wasn’t sure how much hunting was actually commencing but it was a lot of whispered words and quiet tracking. It was more of a pointless stroll for him, wading in the footprints left behind by men who would rather see him dead than share a meal.

He saw the last orange light through the trees, lighting up the forest like a canvas of every kind of green. He kicked a rock at the grounder girl in front of him, the others had spread out as if they were a pack of wolves, close enough to corner an unsuspecting animal but far enough to focus on any movement besides their own. What predators they had become.

Octavia felt the rock hit the back of her boots and glanced at him, her black make up around her eyes made the color look more intense. As if she had needed to look more intense than she was trying to act.

“Are we catching dinner or is this a date?” He mumbled to her. She rolled her eyes,

“The animals have scattered for some reason. Usually by now they would’ve got something but the tracks are everywhere and going in every direction,” the girl explained, looking away from him to watch the darkness between the trees, her hand on ready to draw her weapon.

He would be to, if he was actually given one.

“So why am I here?” He asked.

“Clarke told Bellamy to bring you to keep you out of trouble,” she confessed with no glimpse of guilt or shame. It was normal, to keep him on a leash. A bad dog can’t go unwatched.

“Peachy.” He kicked another rock into the brush, earning a glare from the tracking grounder nearby. He glared back not really giving a shit anymore, if they didn’t want him here than they shouldn’t have asked him to come.

“It’s your fault, you know,” Octavia said, still keeping her distance, a couple of steps ahead.

“So I’ve been told,” he mumbled. He looked up into the sky through the tree line, tilting his head back leisurely. This was better than working his ass off cleaning or building something. He took a deep breath, more of a sigh that expanded his chest making each muscle more aware that it was being used. New bruises ached slightly, but reminded him he was alive.

He scrunched up his nose. His eye caught blackness in the light of the setting sun.

“Fire,” He said out loud, loud enough to make Octavia look up as well. Both of them stopped, watching the soft clouds of darkness snuff out of streams color on the backdrop of the sky. His eyes narrowed as he took another breath, his lips in a hard line. His shoulders stiffened and his fists tightened in the pockets of his leather jacket. His skin itched in response to his senses.

It’s funny how a man never forgets the smell of burning flesh

 

_He knows a grave when  
it doesn’t look like one,_

 

He wasn’t expecting the screaming. He had heard about the burning of Finn’s body, the way he burned with the people he had killed. Murphy had expected to see a pyre, expected to see the savages surrounding the black smoke that only came from when flame consumed flesh. He had not expected the screaming. When they arrived to the village, it was clear that this was no funeral. It was a slaughter.

Women and men tried to fight back the attackers. Honestly, he couldn’t tell the difference between who was the victim and who was the aggressor. Multiple men on steeds carried torches, their faces covered with ripped cloth, their bodies covered in blood stained leathers and furs. The men on foot fought through the homes, killing in their wake to steal weapons and goods. The ones on horses rode through the villages, throwing torches onto the wood roofs and through windows.

There were old books on the Ark that spoke about cowboys and bandits. These were bandits, stealing what they could not afford for themselves and watching people suffer because they simply did not care.

The seven of them moved without hesitation, Octavia slicing down one of the riders with her sword and stabbing him through the chest once he landed on the ground. The others had ran forward, drawing weapons to help the struggling villagers. Flames danced all around them, bodies lay in the dirt. Some of the elders were trying to put out the fires while young children were moved into the forests for protection.

He glanced at Octavia as they stood at the edge of the village, watching her take down men who tried to flee with goods.

“A little help!” he hollered at her, his empty hands open wide to show just how useless he was when no one trusted him with a weapon in times of peace. The girl looked to him before pulling out another long dagger from her waist and throwing it at his feet. He grabbed it in earnest, it was an extension of his arm within seconds.

You see, darkness was ignitable.

Murphy walked into the village, looking for any sign of struggle. It was easy to find despite the way the bandits began to realize that the cavalry had come. His dagger easily sliced through a man’s gut, feeling the blade run across the bone of his spine as it went through him. The man had his hands around a woman’s neck, obviously a part of the threat with his ripped scarf around his face. He didn’t bother to receive a thank you from the grounder woman, simply moved forward, a few feet behind the fearless rebel leader who held his automatic rifle. It was a game changer and how he wished he had his own. This all would be much easier.

As the raiders began to flee or drop dead, the villagers began to focus on their burning homes. Throwing dirt on small fires while attempting to put out large ones. Some homes were a lost cause, easier just to make sure everyone was safe and it was contained from spreading. Luckily most seemed to be reinforced with stone and scrap metal so it wasn’t as terrible.

His green eyes watched as one home burned, the part of the home with wood panels were ablaze and caught the roof on fire as well. A few parts were stone but that didn’t stop the destruction of the wood structure or the furniture inside. It was like watching a losing fight, seeing something die but he couldn’t look away.

Something caught his eye in the window of the home. His mouth opened while he felt his eyes widen. With a blink he saw it again, the flicker of flames lighting up something in the corner of darkness. He took a step forward. It couldn’t be.

“Bellamy!” he called, he didn’t look for the man. He wasn’t the hero. He wasn’t that guy. Squinting his eyes at the small reflecting color he knew he couldn’t have imagined. His heart raced in his chest, the heat of the flames before him made him want to step back but he didn’t.

He saw it again, a flash of brown. Fuck.

His feet moved without him knowing, the heat of the flames danced and licked against his exposed flesh as he jumped through the open door way. He vaguely heard voices cry out from behind him. He knew what he saw. He didn’t need anyone telling him he was making it up or being stupid. He knew no one would believe him.

 The inside of the home blazed around him, he lifted the collar of his t-shirt over his mouth trying to stop the way his lungs begged for clean air. He pushed forward, “Anyone in here!” he yelled. The crackling of wood was his answer, the roar of his blood rushing in his ears did nothing to drown out the way the wooden frame was giving way around him.

“Oh come on!” he yelled, pushing his boots forward, looking for the color he had seen from the window. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t doing this for attention. He didn’t need anyone’s fucking validation. So why was he in here? He moved further into the home, practically tripping at the small dug out step into what looked like a smoked out bedroom, the walls burning.

A small figure sat with its back against a wood chest directly in front of him, a mop of brown hair was tucked between dirty knees, small arms gripped its ears as if to try and block out its own impending demise. When he took another couple of steps toward it, a small red splotched face looked up at him. She couldn’t have been older than three or four.

“Shit,” He cursed, kneeling before the thing, “Are you hurt?” he asked. The girl only stared at him. With another crackle and crash of wood giving way, he didn’t bother to ask again. Obviously this girl didn’t speak English and he wasn’t about to wait to die while she tried to figure it out. He pulled off his jacket before grabbing the girl and lifting her into his arms.

She didn’t fight him, instead wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, tucking her face into his shoulder. The criminal pulled the jacket around her body, the collar of it was tucked over her head. He moved towards the way he came, he felt the flames lick at his exposed skin now. But he held onto the girl, tucking the large jacket around her.

He might hate these fucking grounders but the kid didn’t deserve to burn to death.

  
_But who buries the hatchet_   
_and who buries the bodies?_   
_And who says they’re not_   
_the same thing, these days._

It was hot as hell and he didn’t feel like he was exaggerating. Flames only grew as it was fed, the oxygen began to be sucked out of the room as the fire spent it. He could see the doorway from where he stood, moving around broken beams and burning furniture. Another beam gave way behind him, splinters of wood seared through his shirt as he lunged to the right hoping to avoid debris. He hissed as he felt his flesh sizzle where the shirt was aflame. He quickly held the girl up with one arm under her, slapping his back until the flame was out.

“You okay, kid?’ he asked, holding her up again with both arms and moving toward the exit. He felt her nod against his neck. His eyes focused on his salvation, the sun had fallen and all that he could make out beyond the flaming threshold was figures moved back and forth.

 

_What he doesn’t know is that  
a body can be so full of blood...._


End file.
